Two Years
by CeliaBlair24
Summary: 'After all, it wasn't in the noise when he'd find the broken pieces, but in the silence after, when soothing words meant nothing to the quiet tears.' ONESHOT


Whenever he looked into a mirror, he allowed himself a momentary respite.

Cringing internally, caressing what warmth he held within, fearful of the painted image before him. It was disillusioned, broken… ugly. He couldn't fathom ever coming to terms with it. Lain barren before him, vulnerable and in reach. All he really had to do was reach out, past the comforts of his shell, past his mother's ever comforting smile, his uncles kind words- into reality. He couldn't, though. Every time the fear was too great, every time the pain stung far too much. He couldn't, not ever- he wouldn't accept it.

He reached up, palm against the left side of his face. Brushing across his forehead, the jagged ends of his scar. A dark red splotch right around and over his left eye; dragging into its infernal possession any beauty he once may have held. Tainting it- him. He shied away, letting his fingers drop to his sides; turning away from the mirror.

Ugly… weak… cold… pathetic!

Reality was harsh, forever cruel. Against his very nature, the very essence of his character, his being… he ran. Not because he was scared, he told himself. Arms around his knees, head tucked away, running, hiding. He was insignificant in a world of war, he was insignificant enough to disappear. Just for a while, just till he regained enough confidence in himself to face the , it wasn't running away, not quite. He had no other option, no other choice. He just had to, he couldn't stand not to. He was crumbling.

Iroh said not a word. His lips were sealed and his eyes elsewhere. It was unlike him; then again, who was he to complain? His crew said nothing, Lieutenant Jee occupying himself and everyone else with at least something to do. They all knew to leave him be. They all knew the repercussions if they so much as slipped. Some moments he was grateful- he could think and do and act and feel whatever without their fiery orbs glaring down and assessing- judging him. Other times though, other times it hurt to even think about it. He was alone, battered and scarred. He was alone, falling without railings, a net to catch him. He was alone and it hurt yet no one knew it did. Not Lieutenant Jee, not his crew, not even his beloved uncle.

He was alone and maybe that was for the best. No one wanted imperfections, certainly, no one would ever accept a broken gift.

The sun set and finally, he had the courage to reveal himself. No one questioned the bags under his eyes or his paled skin. In fact, he was certain no one so much as looked at him. He smiled, small and crooked and lost of all humor.

'Just as everything should be'

* * *

It had been a grueling two years at sea. In those two years every little thing that made Zuko the person he was, every string, every stone, every crack… all of them had been replaced. It didn't take a fool to notice the change, either. He knew, past the blank fronts and evasive orbs that he wasn't the only one to notice the change. He knew, as well as they knew, that he was the only one pretending that everything was okay. He was the only one pretending that the mark stretched across Zuko's face hadn't imprinted more than skin. That Ozai hadn't burnt off more than just flesh that fateful day.

Iroh's hands clenched into fists, his breathing quickened- strained as he struggled to keep his temper in. Two years at sea may have been much a remedy for him as the rest of the wanton crew, but those same two years at sea had been the undoing of his beloved nephew. The catalyst may have been the mark- that cursed, wretched scar tainting him but the two years at sea, the long nights and days of endless, hopeless searching had been the long, slow brunt of his beloved nephews unravelling.

He liked to pretend that everything was okay, he liked to pretend that the phase would pass and the little prince would be fine. On good days, it wouldn't be too hard. His temperamental nephew may yell and scream and temper but he'd always end up calmed again. Smiling crookedly, hesitantly as Iroh himself cheered, cup of tea in hand. The good days never lasted though.

There were those days, sparse yet drawn out, when the reality was clear and the pain hit much deeper. When he'd wake up to screaming, agony dead in the night. When golden eyes were dimmed so low they turned dark, and the body was but a shell, a puppet to memories. He'd hold his nephew for long those nights, silent as he whimpered and clawed and cried and tried to get away. Then he'd finally settle, but Iroh never was relieved when he did. After all, it wasn't in the noise when he'd find the broken pieces, but in the silence after, when soothing words meant nothing to the quiet tears. When no lie could keep the reality hidden, when no herb could relieve the pain, when it was so very apparent that nothing was right, that Zuko was broken.

Those nights he'd curse his brother's name.

"Ah, Prince Zuko, you're just in time for dinner! The cook, marvelous man he is, he made roasted Pork-chicken! With so long at sea, I thought my old hands would never taste it again!"

He chuckled, smiling like he always did, eyeing the prince from the corner of his eyes to see if he was following, smiling wider because he indeed, was.

"Forgive me if I startle you Prince Zuko with my excitement, but I can't help the growling of my dear friend!"

The prince never spoke, his lips sealed as they made their way over to the dining hall. It was unlike him, but Iroh didn't think to prod. The answers were obvious; he knew that as well as every person aboard the ship, but the encrusted truth laid untouched. It was a promise in a sense, no one was to say a word. Life would go on as it normally did, no one had to talk, and no tension had to settle over them. Fake smiles, painful as they were to keep, were the only way to pretend. To make sure reality didn't seep into their tight, vulnerable little illusion of normalcy. To make sure the prince wouldn't realize that they knew he hurt.

* * *

Dinner passed smoothly, not a hair out of place. Talk was pleasant, if not a bit grotesque. It was normal however, and he thanked the heavens for that. Uncle rambled on like a tunneling badgermole, topic after topic he sauntered without a moment to breathe. Zuko wondered how the man did it. So excitedly, eyes bare of nothing but wonder as he recounted a thousand different stories of adventure, spilling them before he could even blink. Chatting and babbling till his words were merely distant ramblings as Zuko himself reclined into his seat, hearing yet only faintly.

"I remember dear nephew, you used to be a delight with the Tsungi horn"

If the primce hadn't known his uncle so well, he'd have taken the comment as a complement. Having spent so long in his company, however and he wasn't so easily fooled. He knew from the tone of his voice, the gesturing of his hands and even the damnable twinkling of his eyes that his unclewantedhim to play. He could already feel the headache clawing at his brain.

"Not today, uncle"

His voice came out quietly, if a bit resigned. The glimmer in his uncles eyes faded, and Zuko felt a stab in his stomach, a grabbling guilt slithering through his veins. He sighed, for once letting against his own tumultuous anger to at least keep his uncle in a somewhat spirited mood. The darkness of rest had kept him from fully sleeping anyway, and besides that, he really rather Iroh be happy than not. He sighed, sending his uncle a tight- something- assuring him in a voice, just slightly stronger than earlier, that he wouldn't mind watching.

"You will not regret it, prince Zuko!"

Iroh grinned, picking his stringed instrument as soon as they'd reach the deck. Lieutenant Jee, Footman Kaizu and Shin as well as the cook, the watch and even the engineer joined the former general in the center, the rest of his crew standing around the little musical group in the middle. Iroh started off, the rest following after to the familiar song. It was sweet, and soft and it reminded him of the waters that created it- home.

Strangely enough, Zuko enjoyed the performances. From the singing to the eventual dance the older men put up. It was impromptu and hilarious and the prince found the finely carved mask of his days barring's finally splinter and crack, worn down by the sudden turn of emotions. It had him swaying subconsciously to the music; smiling at the all too familiar lyrics to the all too familiar songs. For a moment, he found the day to be more than just depressing yet all too soon, the sentiments ended.

A somber tone filled the air, and he found his eyes glistening with tears. The world around him cracked, and the mask was all that kept him from crumbling. He didn't know why his uncle had chosen to sing that song, filling the air with memories of an unreachable past. He turned and his uncle, strumming and singing had turned as well, opening his eyes to meet his own glaring, teary ?He asked, but Iroh only smiled. It was that small, sad smile. The one that understood and cared far too much, the one thatknew.

Zuko didn't waste a moment as he broke off into a run. Distantly, he could almost hear his uncle calling his name. He didn't turn back around, though. He ran, blood sloshing in his ears, blocking out all sound as his heart hammered inside his chest. Tears trailed down his cheeks as he remembered a small pond, turtleducks swimming about as he lay. Soft amber eyes upon him, dark hair as soft as silk and the most beautiful smile greeting him as the song flittered into his ears. A melody he would never forget….

'I love you, my dearest son'

He slammed the metal cabin door, blocking out everything as the memory slowly faded into oblivion. Faintly, he could hear his uncle calling out to him, knocking on the door almost pleadingly. He never answered. Knees drawn to his chest, his head tucked away as he tried to blur out everything else, as he tried to focus on that one flickering memory. It was old, filled with a warmth that escaped him, but it was his and it was cherished. He let out a chocked sob as the memory escaped his reach, scattering without a thought. The momentary warmth he felt disappeared with it, and the familiar song left only a lingering despair at its loss. Clutching onto the fabric of his pants, he let his shoulders slump in resignation as a realization struck him deep and struck him raw… suddenly he couldn't even remember the contours of his mother's face.

He realized, tears slipping past his chin, that it had been far too long. He realized, the weakest smile gracing his lips, that he'd long forgotten the warmth. He realized, pretending that he was fine, that he broken just like that familiar song with all those familiar words.

He ran a hand across the left side of his face wondering if she would've accepted him regardless, then let out a short, humorless laugh as the answer came to him.

No, no she wouldn't.

He was a traitor now- a disgrace. She would never accept him. It had been exactly two years since the Agni Kai, the fateful day he'd been banished. He remembered the moment as it was, the punishment of the less than honorable son. He deserved it, he knew, he spoke out of turn. He disrespected his father- the Firelord had no other choice but to punish him.

'You should be dead' he reminded himself. Clutching his knees tighter as he wrapped himself into a ball. Making himself smaller, insignificant like he truly was behind his princely charade. Two long years and he was still a failure… Azula would've fared much better.

Unlike the many times he thought of her, he didn't at all detest or deny it- the reality. It was true, after all, his younger sister was always one step ahead. A dull throb stopped him from crawling any further into the dark, reminding him that he had better use of his time than to wallow about himself. Slowly, listening to the complaints and anger of his conscience, he picked himself up, dusted off his pants and wiped away at his tears. He didn't bother to plaster on a smile, but he hid his frown behind an impassive mask.

When at last he opened the door, his uncle was there to greet him. He didn't say a word and Iroh said nothing back. The tension was thick, and the air far too cold, but Zuko held his ground until finally, the former general sighed.

"Are you alright, prince Zuko?"

He could see the worry flickering in his orbs, the sadness and the pain. He considered then if it was worth keeping up the fabrication, and like always the answer was yes. Because he found that he couldn't stand those eyes on him, always worried. Because he found that he couldn't stand the way they held pain. Waving him off, nonchalant- almost apathetical, he crossed the path between them.

"I'm fine, Uncle"

The tension never eased and Zuko knew he didn't believe him… he never spoke out about it though. He just continued on, back to his uncle as he made his way to the railings. Palms white against the metals, eyes narrowed as he promised his search would come to a close. As he promised himself the silken sheets and love and familiarity of home.

Iroh didn't bother his nephew the rest of that night. Just watching from afar, waiting through guilt stricken eyes for the worst of the brunt to come. It did, later that night, chilling the air with silent wails and piercing screams.

* * *

 **My first ATLA fic, guys!** **I'm actually kinda proud of this. One sudden flash of inspiration and i finished it all in one sitting! It could perhaps use some work on any grammatical or spelling errors but considering the time, I'm not surprised (Finished at 3am! Granted, I started at 12:30am but still!). Anywhoooo**

 **Til next time,**

 **Ciao!**

 **-Yorky**


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